


Identities Assume Us

by ab2fsycho



Series: Revolve [11]
Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: M/M, and layton's exhausted, and still being a brat, as usual, because she's flora and all she does is watch, descole is sick, do you appreciate paul, flora is eternal, how do i even begin to explain, i think you should appreciate paul, layton's still mad, let us take a moment to appreciate paul, meanwhile flora knows shit, not much has changed, not quite as bad as before, she knows all, ummm - Freeform, what is even the point of tagging if i'm gonna write these ridiculous things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 13:22:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2152317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ab2fsycho/pseuds/ab2fsycho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Descole has fallen ill and the professor is losing sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Identities Assume Us

When Layton gets to his office, Rosa is having a fit. “What, are you moving into your office now?”

Layton freezes. Squinting, he asked, “What gave you that idea?”

“Now, Professor, I realize that you can't help but stay up too late researching whatever it is you've decided to research nowadays, but do you really think it's wise of you to simply pack up and move in?”

“I can't say I understand what you are getting at. Perhaps you could enlighten me as to what has led you to believe I'm moving into my office?” Because the more she ranted about it, the better the idea sounded. Especially considering just who was staying in his home at the moment. He wasn't quite ready to think about that. Not again in such a short amount of time. He was still rather unnerved and upset and miffed by it.

She points to a suitcase by his desk. He doesn't recognize it, but there are many things in his office that he has forgotten he owned. Stepping over to the black leather case, he finds that the more he stares the less he knows it. It's simply not his. Picking it up, he sets it on his desk and peeks inside. He sees now why Rosa thought he was moving into his office, but these are not his clothes. He was just about to say so when he finds the one thing to tip him off to the true owner of these items: a pair of square, red-rimmed glasses.

Closing the case, he turns to Rosa and says, “They are mine, but they were meant to be delivered to my home. Not my office. I left them somewhere while I was abroad recently.”

That calms Rosa's nerves, but his are just beginning to fray. They continued to fray through the day as he recalled just what was happening in his life. Several questions raced through his mind, but they all boiled down to just one: why now? Why was he here now? Why couldn't he have shown his face three years before? Layton would have settled for two years before, even one. But why now?

It was unreasonable for him to be angry. It was irrational for him to think Descole had injured himself on purpose just to return to Layton. The very idea that Descole would want to see Layton at all was altogether improbable. The last time he'd seen him had been a truly devastating time in both men's lives. It wasn't like Descole even wanted to be here. He literally greeted Layton with the excuse that he'd had no one else to turn to. Layton would just have to keep reminding himself that once Descole was healed, he would have no more reason to stay. He had to remind himself not to be surprised by his former rival's anticipated disappearance. But none of that stopped him from being angry. Or troubled. Or unsettled.

The day dragged on until he returned home. Paul had successfully restocked the food supply, and Flora had successfully given Descole his medicine. Flora had not attempted to cook, which was a relief to Layton. He set to work on dinner, Flora watching his every move. He recognized her attentiveness. She usually did this when she had a series of questions to ask him. Before he could tell her he wasn't in the mood, she blurts out, “How do you and Descole really know each other?”

He sighed. There was no getting around this. He was going to have to tell her eventually, but how much should he say. His first answer came out swifter than his mind could function, “He almost killed my friends and myself a few times. Once, he succeeded.”

She gasped. He berated himself. Definitely not the correct phrasing. “And you're friends with him?”

“We're not really . . .,” he stops himself. He needs to actually think before he speaks. He needs to not be upset with Flora. She just wanted to know what was happening around her. He couldn't fault her for that. “We were friends for a time. He never . . . intentionally tried to hurt us. Except once.”

“Was that when—?”

“No, that was not when he succeeded. That was an event in time we liked to refer to as his mental breakdown.” Flora covered her mouth, trying to conceal a giggle. “Don't laugh. Mental breakdowns are very serious matters.”

“It's just the way you said it.” She straightened up. “Why did he leave?”

Layton closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. “I don't know.” That was the truth. He had no idea why Descole left. He had no idea why the man had let him think he was dead for this long. Descole had tried answering him the night before, but Layton had not been as receptive as he probably should have been. 

His reminiscing did not deter Flora. “Did you miss him?” That was one question too far. Layton most definitely would not answer her. It seemed she anticipated that reaction, because she countered his silence with, “I think he missed you.”

Layton's blood was a strange mix of boiling and freezing and he couldn't quite determine how he was supposed to feel. He turned to her and, without meaning to, spewed the venomous statement, “Well, I've been here the whole time.”

She was not taken aback by his venom. Rather, she looked like a bully with a magnifying glass studying an insect. That impression of her intensified when she asked, “He used to break in here, didn't he?”

He returned his attention to dinner. “What gave you that—?”

“Is he the reason why you never locked that window?” She gestured to it, but he didn't need to look to know which one she was pointing to.

As he added some finishing touches, he wished that she'd been less observant. Instead of giving her the direct answer she wanted, he told her, “Lock it now if it hasn't rusted itself in place. No need to keep it open any longer.” Spooning out the meal he'd prepared, he caught a small, satisfied look on her face. While he hadn't desired to, it was almost as if she'd gotten the answer she'd wanted despite his best efforts.

Doing his best to put the conversation out of his mind, he handed her a plate of food for herself. Before serving himself, he elected to go see if their 'guest' was up for getting up and joining them. Picking up the suitcase, he carried it to the back. Dropping it in the doorway, he found himself standing at the foot of his own bed and staring at the man lying in it. With the mask on, it was difficult to ascertain whether he was dosing or fully asleep or awake. All Layton could tell was that his breathing was labored and he was lying uncomfortably, most likely due to his injuries.

He approached, moving to sit on the edge of the mattress beside Descole. Without warning the man, he placed the backs of his knuckles on Descole's cheek to determine his temperature. He didn't react immediately. Instead he grumbled, “You were staring. Staring is rude.”

“I couldn't tell if you were asleep. And you have a fever. How did you manage to get this sick?”

“Use that brain of yours. It was raining in London. Big surprise there. And I was soaked to the bone.” Burying his face in his arm, he let out a series of deep-chested coughs.

“Flora said you took the medicine I left you. Is that true?” Descole nodded. “I'm afraid you'll need something stronger. Unfortunately, most of those medicines will make you drowsy.”

“I'll get by without it.”

Layton's brow furrowed as his frustration mounted. “Your body's already staving off infection. You need to take care of yourself.”

“I don't need it.”

“Why are you here, then? I'm fairly certain you're here to stay alive, which is what I intend to help you do. Now I'm going to get you dinner and then you are going to take some stronger medication whether you like it or not.”

“I'm not hungry.”

“Tough.” Layton got up. As he walked out, he growled. “You would survive a nuclear fallout just to spite me. You and roaches.” It irritated him more that Descole chuckled at him before turning and coughing into his arm again.

Some days Layton swore the universe mocked him. This was certainly one of those days.

:)

Descole had been certain he would survive this cold up until the next morning. His nose was clogged and leaking like a sieve, so he was forced to breathe through his mouth. He was shivering no matter how many blankets he buried himself under, and his fever prevented him from pulling more blankets over himself. The worst of it was that the gash in his back and side was throbbing with heat.

Descole coughed, the force making his throat raw and agitated. It was hard to speak let alone argue with Layton when he came in to change Descole's bandage and medicate him that morning. He found that he wanted to take off his mask, the sweat pooling beneath it almost too much to handle and fogging the lenses. Every time he thought it was a good idea, though, he'd lose his nerve. He didn't like being without the mask, and in fact panicked at the thought.

That, of course, was what led to his inevitable meltdown upon seeing Layton with a certain pair of glasses. “What are those doing here?!” he practically shouted despite the condition of his throat.

Layton answered with what seemed like disinterest. “It seems that though you were both to remain at a certain distance from one another, your butler continues to look out for you.”

“Where did he get those?” Descole's heart was hammering as Layton set the things on the nightstand.

“I didn't exactly have a discussion with him, you know. He simply dropped off some things while no one was looking and—”

“He should not have those!” Layton stared at him as though he'd grown six heads, and he wished he could run from that look. He wished he could run from those glasses, glasses that he'd thought he'd destroyed. How Raymond had gotten a hold of an exact match or when he'd done so, Descole had no idea. He simply wanted no parts of them.

Layton then shook his head, derailing the series of thoughts running through Descole's head. “I don't know how he had them. I just know that perhaps taking off the mask and—”

“No!” His throat burned from the outburst, and he had to settle back against the pillows and covers.

Layton glared. “If I hadn't removed the mask myself, you'd think that thing was melded to your face.” He sat down on the mattress before saying, “You do realize you'll be less recognizable wearing those, don't you? Should anyone find you here?”

“Who would find me here? Who? No one.” He avoided looking at the spectacles, instead choosing to close his eyes. Then a bitter thought bit into the back of his mind. “Except maybe this Paul person. You seem to trust him.”

Layton barely acknowledged the snipe. “He is a dear friend of Flora's, an old colleague of mine, and nothing to concern yourself over.”

“Then it's settled. I'm not wearing those things.”

Layton pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “Fine. Far be it from me to tell you what to do.” As Layton proceeded to work with Descole's bandages, Descole slid a hand over to the drawer in the nightstand. Sliding it open, he casually pushed the glasses into the drawer before closing it. To Layton's credit, he at least feigned obliviousness. But simply touching the things had driven another nail into Descole's chest, and it forced a gasp and a cough past his lips. That got Layton's attention. “You look worse.”

This time he didn't have a quip. Not that he couldn't think of one, he just didn't have the energy. “I feel worse.”

“So you're not going to fight over antibiotics, then?” Descole didn't answer, which was the closest to a 'yes' he would give. Dressing Descole's wounds and handing him some pills, he could see Layton's expression softening but for a moment. He realized how tired the professor looked. Suddenly he felt an aggressive amount of guilt demanding to be felt, threatening him with another nail. Before the feeling progressed, Layton's face hardened once more and the man got up. “I'll have next week off. I'll be able to keep a closer watch on you then. For now, don't give Flora any trouble.”

Driving his previous thoughts away, he nodded. “Wouldn't dream of it.” Flora was a breath of fresh air compared to the professor at the moment.

When the professor left and Flora came in to take his place, she was sewing again. She asked if he needed anything, which he replied to with a no. Then she was quiet for a few moments. Probably thinking of more questions to ask, he presumed. He coughed, unsure of whether or not he would be able to answer her. He was beginning to pay dearly for shouting at Layton.

“Are you sure you don't want something to drink at least?” she asked. He shook his head. While he did need to stay hydrated, he was putting off actually experiencing the cold liquid searing his already scorching throat. He hated getting sick. He didn't get sick often and tried hard to avoid doing so, but when he finally did fall ill it was like the illness was making up for lost time. Fortunately, Flora interrupted his commiseration with, “I'm curious.”

“Of course you are,” he responded quietly and without malice. “What would you like to know?”

“The professor said you had a mental breakdown at some point?”

Descole paused for a moment to think about the words that had just come out of her mouth. Well, that should have been offensive. However, he found himself smiling. He knew exactly which event in time Layton had been referring to. “So that's what we're calling the Ambrosia incident. My mental breakdown.” Why did he find that funny? He'd blame the fever once it went away.

“What happened with the . . . Ambrosia incident?”

“A gigantic robot was involved, and Layton and his apprentice had effectively pissed me off that day. Pardon my language.”

She giggled, unfazed. “The professor has a habit of upsetting people with gigantic robots, doesn't he?”

“I started a trend? How nice.” 

“Well, Paul never made anything gigantic. Actually,” she tilted her head upward, as if remembering something specific, “he was most successful with flying apparatuses, but the one thing Luke never stopped talking about was the time he unhooked a Ferris wheel and sent it rolling after the professor and Luke.”

Descole's brow furrowed. “Paul tried to kill them . . . with a Ferris wheel?” He couldn't decide. Would he rather meet this Paul, kill him, or ask him about his finer methods?

“He was prone to fits of rage himself. He almost destroyed my village. He _did_ destroy my home. That's when I came to live with the professor.”

“You're friends with this fellow?”

She smiled. “I actually asked the professor the same of you.”

Descole nodded. “Fair enough.” 

“We're much closer now. He kidnapped me once.” His expression must have been one of incredulity, because she responded with, “Oh, it wasn't serious. He was trying to prove a point to the professor, as well as get his hands on a particular item he and Luke were carrying at the time.”

“I hope his point was for Layton to keep a closer watch on you.”

She smiled. “It was. He's quite protective of me. He just has a different way of showing it.” 

She then proceeded to talk about the man's various flying inventions, and Descole was beginning to think that perhaps meeting him wasn't so terrible an idea. Then he remembered that Paul had almost killed the professor and Luke and he figured after they had their discussion of machinery he'd get back at him. He pushed his thoughts aside when she mentioned another name alongside Paul's. “Speaking to whom? Didn't quite catch that.”

“Oh, Clive. Clive Dove. I go visit him every now and then when the professor's distracted. That seems to be more often than not, nowadays.”

Descole coughed. “Why does that name ring a bell?”

She stiffened, her face adopting a guilty expression. “He . . . also kidnapped me. And tried to blow up London.”

He remembered reading something about that. He let out a loud sigh. Of course Layton had been involved in that situation. He was always involved in something like that it seemed. “Flora, I'm beginning to question your better judgment. Just how have you managed to surround yourself with a bunch of criminals and still manage to be on good terms with them.”

“Because I'm fairly certain that if they'd had someone to talk to from the beginning, someone who'd listen and understand without judging them, perhaps they wouldn't be the criminals they are today.”

He liked her. Descole liked Flora a lot. How could Layton not see how intelligent and kind she was and appreciate it? The thought prompted him to ask, “Why live with the professor? It seems you have your pick of places to go.”

Her smile turned to a mixture of fondness and sadness. “He made me happy. I just wish . . . I wish I made him as happy as Luke did. When he was here.”

Descole understood that sentiment more than he was willing to admit. Before the illness could close off his airways, he found himself muttering, “The brat did have a certain charm about him, didn't he?” Flora looked up at that, but Descole was struggling to keep his eyes open. 

“I would have loved to go on a few adventures with the professor without having to beg, honestly. Luke never even had to ask.”

“To be fair, he gave Layton little choice. One time Layton tried to leave him behind and the boy attached himself to the professor like a damn backpack.” 

That made Flora laugh. “That sounds like something Luke would do. He tried to rip off a police officer's face once.” 

“Do what?”

“He thought it was Paul in disguise.”

Descole smiled and wished he could at least muster a chuckle at the image, but his lids were steadily growing heavier and heavier. He almost cursed the medication he'd been given for the sudden drowsiness, but it didn't exactly help that he had a habit of refusing to sleep. He didn't want to think of the dream he'd had the other night, but he had to remind himself why he didn't sleep anymore.

He nearly jerked upright when a cool hand touched his forehead. The gash in his back and side reminded him why he was bedridden in the first place, the pain assaulting him as he gasped and coughed. “I'm sorry,” she apologized quickly. “I've been told I'm too quiet.”

“And too fast. What did you do, teleport?”

“Oh, if I could teleport I'd have a lot less trouble keeping up with the professor. I'll get you a cold rag.”

“That sounds pleasant,” he said as his eyes slid closed again. As she left the room, he lost yet more control over his faculties. Before he knew it, weariness overtook him.

:)

“Professor?” Layton didn't respond at first. 

“Professor Layton?” He didn't respond at second either. 

“Is he dead?” This really should have woken him up. 

“No, he's still breathing.”

Then there was a slam on his desk, which forced him bolt upright. Had his hat been on his head, it would have gone flying. His heart still hammering painfully, he realized Rosa and one of his students were standing before him. Rosa had slammed one of his textbooks shut, and he guessed that was what had roused him. It was then that the embarrassment of being discovered sleeping on the job hit him. “I'm terribly sorry—”

“Late night, Professor?” the student asked cheerily. Her expression was more forgiving than Rosa's. Rosa was going to have it in for him when they were finally alone. 

He answered, “You could say that. Now, what do you need?”

Staying up to keep an eye on his guest was starting to get to him, and working the hours that he was doing wasn't helping. He supposed he should have seen that coming. Without intending to he reminded himself of another point in time when he'd fallen asleep in his office from pure exhaustion. He'd been trying to stay awake then too, and the individual he'd been trying to catch then had found a subtle way of mocking his inability to keep awake. The memory elicited a negative reaction in him, and the negativity was enough to keep him awake until he got home. Then, sleep seemed to be staring him in the face. Stepping inside, he was just about to call for Flora and ask that she make dinner (something he only asked of her when his wits weren't at their most powerful) when he saw a note on the table. Glancing at it, it read that she would be back shortly and that she'd gone to pick up takeout with Paul. The message continued on the back, but he didn't bother reading it. He was tired and glad she'd had the forethought to go get dinner.

He didn't think much about what he was doing and didn't remember much of where he ended up. He may as well have been sleepwalking. All he knew was that he'd landed somewhere soft and comfortable and he wasn't about to complain.

:)

Flora got home with an armful of food, Paul helping her open the door. “He must be home. The car is here,” she said aloud, but she didn't see the professor anywhere.

“Yes, I see he also kept the modifications on that old thing. Surprising, really.”

Setting the bags on the table, she picks up the note she'd left for him and tosses it in the garbage on the off-chance Paul might read the back. He didn't really need to know that their guest was sound asleep. Leaving Paul standing in the kitchen, she tells him, “I'll go see if he's in his room.”

Paul doesn't follow her thankfully. Tentatively knocking, she then opens the door. She expected to find the professor in his chair looking after Descole. She withheld a gasp at the sight she did happen upon. Closing the door quickly, she has to take a moment for things to sink in. So it was like that, she thought. She . . . honestly didn't know how to react.

Stepping back from the door, she almost ran into Paul as she reentered the living room. “What is it?”

Her mouth opened and closed several times before she could answer, “He's asleep.”

“So wake him up! Food's getting cold,” Paul demanded before proceeding forward himself.

In a rush of panic, she grabbed his arm and cried, “No, let him sleep! He hasn't been sleeping well.”

Paul stopped and raised an eyebrow at her. “He's sleeping naked isn't he?”

No, he wasn't. “Yes,” she whispers anyway, hoping that will deter Paul from further investigation. 

It does. “Man's gone mad. Can't wait for him to get his act together,” he griped. 

Letting out a sigh of relief, she was glad that worked. She couldn't fathom explaining why the professor was sleeping beside Descole, arm draped over the other man like it came naturally.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first of two updates today. Don't miss the other one.


End file.
